


Greasemonkey 2: The Socialite

by Nic (lonejaguar)



Series: Greasemonkey [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonejaguar/pseuds/Nic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story continues uptown...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greasemonkey 2: The Socialite

 

* * *

 

 

I admit that the drive home was fraught with more tight corners and ignorance to the speed limit than I’d originally intended. I wouldn’t, however, admit that the reason was sitting in the passenger seat of my newly washed Audi during one of the hottest summer months the city had seen in years. The air conditioning blasted across my arms even as I shifted into second and pulled into the parking garage under my building.

“Nice ride.”

I looked over at my companion, wondering if the comment was a good or bad one until I saw the smirk on her face as I pulled into my assigned space.

 

* * *

 

Even on a Friday night, the lobby was silent. I sometimes wondered if anyone else lived in the building. The doorman tipped his hat. I nodded to George on the way to the elevator, my heels echoing in the large space. I wasn’t afraid to appraise the young elevator attendant as I stepped in. I might have thought he was twenty-one if his hand didn’t drop to his crotch when I smirked at him. I patted it with my handbag as I turned, expecting my lovely Olivia to be in step behind me. Most women I brought home followed close – either because they were wholly uncomfortable, or because they only had one thing in mind. I was never surprised whatever the case may have been, except with Olivia, who instead I found lingering in the lobby, staring up at the decorated coffered ceiling.

I wondered briefly if she was lost.

“Hey,” I called out to her. She turned and smirked then, zipping up the blue coveralls as if it would make them more distinguished. I felt a pang of disappointment as the clinging t-shirt disappeared under the loose blue cotton. I watched her walk over, her eyes traveling along the walls and floors until they rested squarely on me, gripping my chest. The swagger in her step was enchanting and despite my body’s willingness to fall victim, I wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat.

The scent of grease and motor oil filled the elevator when she set foot inside. Not dirty, but metallic and I could feel the attendant lift an eyebrow. If he was unaccustomed to the guests I invited into my suite, he must have been new. When the doors opened, he mumbled his “good evening” and left us in the marble tiled foyer. My heels clacked on the floor as I turned on a few lights. Looking back, I noticed Olivia hadn’t moved.

“Make yourself at home,” I said.

She looked around, her lips quirked in a mysterious smirk. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked and lifted her hands as if in surrender. “I feel like I just lowered the retail value of this place.”

I smirked unintentionally. “Surely I’m not the first to bring you home to a place like this.”

“I thought the Kiss and Tell came later.” Her aversion to subordinate was what made me want her in the first place.

I pointed down a long dark hallway. “It’s right through here. Would you like a drink?”

She stopped next to me, careful not to touch anything. “Whatever you’re having.”

The subtle way she allowed me to be in control, but at the same time somehow keeping the playing field level was admirable. I walked into the sparse kitchen thinking about how many women I’d brought back here that couldn’t deal with one of two things: my money or my personality. They were either loathe to relax or they kept asking how much something cost. One had the nerve to suggest I hire a decorator.

None of it really mattered in the bigger picture. They never held much use for me beyond the bedroom. I led a solitary existence – not a lonely one – and in my position nearly every woman in New York could be at my disposal. If I spent a night alone, it was because I wanted to.

When I emerged from the kitchen, Olivia was standing in front of an unassuming painting on the white wall. My suite was covered with various pieces of artwork, but she was the first that looked at it without a confused frown. Her coveralls were undone again – that white babydoll t-shirt decorated with grease on her shoulders and chest completed the ensemble much as a leather Gucci bag might.

My heels gave away my presence as I started from the kitchen and she turned to me as I handed her a glass of gin and tonic.

“I didn’t really see you as someone with a Magritte on their wall,” she said simply, sipping the drink carefully.

I blinked as the thought processes in my head scattered, wondering if this delightfully gorgeous proletariat had actually said what I thought she had. I looked at The Listening Room attempting to gather them again. “What _did_ you see?”

She shrugged, taking a thoughtful drink and I watched her swallow as she brought the glass to her chest. “The Masters… Renoir, Degas, not… Magritte, Ernst…” Her head turned and I could feel her eyes focus on a far wall near the kitchen. She frowned. “Duchamp?”

I smiled unguarded and nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I guess I expected something less surreal and more…”

“Pretentious?” I finished.

Her eyes averted my own and I almost felt guilty. “Where’s the Dalí?” she asked, her gaze returning.

I wasn’t sure if I understood. “The what?”

I watched her take a long sip from the tumbler and make her way to the large black sectional in the middle of the sunken living room. “You have all the other big names,” she said, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the couch. The heat rolled over my body like a wave. “You’ve got to have a Dalí.”

Suddenly this game had become a lot more interesting. I carefully sat down next to her and was reminded of a young woman I had brought back one night. She talked up a storm about business and politics. Her eyes were bright and clear; her body slim and craving for attention. I could have easily kept her for longer than one night if she hadn’t asked me which one of my nephews had painted the _cute picture_ in the front hallway.

 _“Max Ernst,”_ I had replied with a frown. Her blank expression said everything I never wanted to hear.

“Alex?” It was only the second time she’d uttered my name and it shattered my reverie. She looked over my shoulder at the gas fireplace behind me. “Why Surrealism?” she asked.

I followed her gaze, noting how her eyes darted to my shoulder and down my body. “It’s exciting,” I replied. “I could talk about dreams and mysticism; irrational thought and images, but…” If I wasn’t so absolvent to cliché, I would say her eyes twinkled with interest. “I just like it.”

Olivia nodded her head to the painting over the fireplace she’d been looking at. “Ordinarily, I’d question the presence of a Picasso, but Les Demoiselles d’Avignon was always considered something of a Surrealist work.”

The twist in my stomach made me shift. Olivia seemed to delight in the effect of her comment and her smile was almost predatory. “How do you know so much about art?” I asked, realizing I’d unintentionally moved closer.

“I know a lot of things,” she said. The rest of drink disappeared with a gulp and she set the glass down on the white glossed table. I couldn’t respond when she plucked the glass from my between my fingers, I could only watch her leave it next to her own and close the gap between us.

“I know André Breton’s definition of Surrealism didn’t originally include art at all.” She was on her knees on the couch beside me then, leaning over, sending the mingling scent of motor oil and my perfume into my nose. Her lips touched my collar bone and my eyes fluttered shut. “I know frottage and grattage were both developed by Ernst when he obsessed over grooves in wooden floorboards.” Her tongue slid across to my neck, punctuated by a sharp nip. I only knew her hands planted on either side of my head when I felt the foam give, but I could feel the heat on my hips when she straddled my waist. “I know Dalí was expelled from the movement in 1937 despite being among the most famous of the group,” she said, her lips finding the corner of my jaw. Her breath was hot, but never laboured. “Do you want me to keep going?”

I chuckled, the air escaping my lungs after being held in check for so long. I leaned up to kiss her, but she backed away. I was foolish to think the game would have stopped. The roles had just been flipped momentarily and I was determined to switch them back. I smirked, chewing the corner of my lip. Olivia’s eyes dropped. Perfect.

She got to her feet and pushed the blue coveralls to the floor. The tight t-shirt and matching boyshorts clung to her body like a second skin and I wondered if she always went next to naked underneath the baggy jumpsuit. The secret lives of car mechanics. It sounded like something on Inside Edition. Her skin was that natural tan that leapt out against the stark white of her clothes. I was fascinated at how feminine she was outside her element and outside her clothes.

Taking my hands, she lifted me to my feet and turned me around. Les Demoiselles d’Avignon stared at me from their perch above the fireplace and I felt the cool conditioned air hit my back as my dress’ zipper fell slowly. She kissed my shoulders, warming my skin; her hands smoothing the goose bumps when the silk hit the floor. A groan escaped her as her hands moved, glided, stroked. One hand crossed my body and stilled on my breast, the other snaking between my legs. She pulled me against the length of her body, her breath heavy against my ear.

“Planning ahead?” she murmured.

Eventually I’d admit I rarely wore underwear to nightly events because it was usually those evenings I’d spend with a full bed. But not yet.

“Tell me about your car,” I said.

I shivered when she pulled away and turned me to face her. She smiled at my retort – we both knew I was avoiding the question – and led me to the pair of Barcelona chairs that faced the couch. She sat against the black leather and pulled me toward her. I followed suit straddling her lap. The leather shag rug tickled my feet. “I don’t have a car,” she replied. I frowned, certain that a car mechanic without a car was unfathomable. “I had a car.”

I leaned forward and tasted her skin, salty from sweat. “What happened to it?” Her hands came to my waist, flexing gently.

“Stripped,” she explained. I ran my hands along her body, freeing her from the small shirt and modest bra. Shifting to the edge of the chair, I leaned forward.

“What kind of car was it?” I asked, gently taking a nipple into my mouth. It was almost as sweet as the low moan that escaped her throat.

“’68… Mustang 390 GT.” She pushed my shoulders back slightly.

“Like the movie,” I said.

She trapped my arms behind my back and surveyed the scene before her. “Like the movie, yeah.” Her mouth covered my navel and moved casually to my breast. “I saved for weeks,” she said. “Ordered parts from across the country.” Each statement was punctuated with a kiss, edging carefully to the left. “I worked obsessively, sometimes overnight.” Her mouth covered my breast, gently working a moan from my throat.

“What happened?” I breathed.

“Stripped in my own parking garage.” Her lips teased my nipple as she spoke. “Been taking the subway ever since.”

In the past, women I’d bedded had tried to enhance the experience with dirty words and provocative activities but I’d never been one for such crudities. In fact, I couldn’t stand it. From telling them to kiss me, to shushing them quietly, to physically covering their mouths, none the women I brought home ever had anything to say that I wanted to hear.

Olivia seemed pleased to follow my lead which surprised me since she’d been so unwilling to relinquish control before. My ability to come to any further conclusion shattered as her hand left my back and slid between my legs. I tore my hands from her grip behind my back and braced myself on the back of the chair. She looked up then, watching my face contort as her fingers sank into me.

“Jesus.” I closed my eyes briefly before she started to move. A word never escaped her lips. I rode her hand, gripping the black leather, the waves of heat rolling over my body becoming a slow burn. “I don’t think,” I started, shifting in her lap. “I don’t think this is what… Mies van der Rohe had in mind for his chair.”

I was beginning to love that smirk that crossed her face. “This suits our purposes so well,” she said, her other hand flexed on my ass. “I’d have a hard time believing he had anything else in mind.”

In a matter of moments, the slow burn turned into a trance, the smile fading from my face. Even if I had wanted to say anything in response, the words had fled. It was only the sensation of those nimble fingers withdrawing that brought me to some level of lucidity.

“Wait,” I whispered. My voice was barely my own when my fingers wrapped around her wrist, stilling her retreat. “Let me help.” The question on her face told me she was unaccustomed to this kind of situation and to be honest, so was I. The thought of having to touch myself while someone that was perfectly capable of doing it sat and watched was abhorrent. My bed mates had one role and one only. And if they couldn’t succeed at that then I had made a terrible mistake in asking them home. But like she had for almost the whole evening, she followed my lead and pushed back into me without another hesitation.

The rest didn’t take long. I could feel the muscles in my arm straining to hold my weight as I moved with her, over her. Her breathing became as laboured as my own as she watched, her hips lifting. Holding back never was an option. My forehead fell to her shoulder as the orgasm ripped through me, my body thrusting for every touch it could get to. Her free arm wrapped around me as the silence fell. For a moment, I’d forgotten where I was until the metallic scent of her skin brought me back.

I got to my feet, letting her fingers slip from my body. She followed suit without a word and trailed me to the bedroom. I didn’t look back but her sudden animal presence nearly shrouded me when I reached to turn on the light. Her body pressed against my back, covering my hand over the plate. The light from the city shone through the window, but it was the gallery lighting over the bed that drew her attention away from me.

“So there’s the Dalí,” she said.

I turned in her arms, watching the corner of her mouth quirk as she surveyed the canvas transfer of The Metamorphosis of Narcissus. I wanted nothing more than to devour it. “I can’t call myself a collector without one.”

She looked at me then, the light casting a mischievous shadow across her face. “It’s one of my favourites.”

I backed her onto the bed, the Egyptian cotton cool against our heated skin as we crawled to the headboard, Surrealism at its finest watching over us. She leaned against the wood as I peeled the remaining clothes from her body. I smiled when I looked up, her eyes no longer on me, but the wall behind. Every woman I brought home had a different reaction to the simple mirror above the small set of drawers by the foot of the bed: shock, excitement, and in Olivia’s case, intense interest. It was set a few inches up from the bed and I never tried to disguise its use. And though, it served the same purpose a mirror on the ceiling might have, it was less obvious and certainly less tacky. Being able to view the action in addition to the painting wasn’t a mistake, either.

Her eyes flicked to my face as I crawled up her body. I kissed her hard, her head bumping into the wood behind her and her hands smoothed over my body, but stopped at my ass. My lips traveled her face, neck and breasts. Her fingers tangled in my hair, brushing it back from my face as I took a nipple into my mouth.

“Open your eyes,” I said against her breast, feeling her hips push into my stomach. “Can you see the painting?”

“Yeah,” she replied, sliding down the headboard slightly. The moan that hummed through her as I moved down her body delighted me. Making gorgeous women make noises like that was my favourite hobby second only to art.

“Tell me about it.” The moment the words left me, I could almost hear the whirr of her mind accessing information and the simultaneous collapse of her thought processes when my mouth descended between her legs. The subsequent cursing was simply a bonus.

“Tell you—“ she gasped, her hands digging into the sheets beside her. The line of muscle in her arms was divine. “Painted… in the height of his career.” She shifted under the movement of my tongue, warring with her own body. Her eyes closed in concentration. “Classical references… images of death and decay… jesus.” I smiled at her dedication. “Sometimes compared to Bosch—Alex, I can’t…” Her expression was pleading, her head tilted back in surrender. If I didn’t like her so much, I’d be inclined to have her keep going, taunting her with the delicious torture I know I had enjoyed in the past.

But she didn’t say any more and I didn’t object. This was how I wanted her, as all the women I brought home; completely at my mercy. She was especially the prize I wanted, complete with the challenge. She gripped the headboard behind her as her hips tilted. I would have loved to keep her right there all night, underneath the art lighting. It seemed so appropriate. She whimpered – the calm before the storm - my mouth was relentless in its pursuit and I poured it on, my erratic breathing matched her breath for breath.

I hummed into her as she came, her hips pressing against my face. I thought briefly she might have torn down my headboard, but I was pleased to see it still standing when I opened my eyes again. She panted, her body slumped against the lacquered wood and for once, I didn’t think about anything but the moment.

 

* * *

 

If there was one thing I excelled more at than getting women into my bed, it was getting them out again. The Awkward Morning After was something I loathed and usually meant the day was to be spent trying to get the unwanted pissed, sobbing mass out of my suite. And no one needed that. So it was always suggested the unwelcome party leave before the night was over, because it was just easier on everyone that way.

Except I hadn’t made a move.

We’d been lying under the soft sheets for nearly four hours pretending to sleep. I felt the bed shift and I knew she was getting up, going for it. I knew she wasn’t a stranger to the scene and figured if anything, she’d leave on her own. She had been such a perfect one-night-stand, it was a given. Rarely did I find any attachment to these women. And I never thought I was built that way until I rolled over and watched her pull those boyshorts over her ass.

“You’re leaving.” She must have thought I was asleep judging by the way her head whipped to look at me.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

I’d had the martyrs screaming at me for being such a bitch, I’d had bitches yelling at me for being such a whore, and I’d had the silent types, who merely left without a word. But I don’t think I’d ever had someone ask me what I wanted. Any other night and I’d have told her to leave and maybe throw in a bonus story about my husband returning from a business trip early in the morning.

But God knows there was no husband. And rarely did I have anything in the morning that couldn’t be moved or cancelled.

“Tuesday,” I said.

She frowned and looked around like she’d missed something. “What?”

“I might need to get my car fixed on Tuesday.”

That smirk crossed her face again and I resisted asking her to stay until morning. “You know where to find me.”

 

* * *

  
END  
September 29, 2004  



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